The judge assumed his legal manner; she assumed her hereditary one.
"It is folly to educate a person above his station," she said.
"Men make their stations, madam," replied the judge.
He sat in his great arm-chair and looked at her with reverent but determined eyes. His head was slightly bent, in deference to her dissenting voice, and his words wavered, but his will did not. In his attitude his respect for her sexually and individually was expressed, but he had argued the opposing interests in his mind, and his decision was judicial.
"I am deeply pained, my dear lady," he said, "but I cannot turn the boy away."
Mrs. Webb did not reply. She gathered up her stiff skirt and departed with folded lips.
After she had gone the judge paced his study nervously for a half-hour, giving uncertain glances towards the hall door, as if he expected the advent of an incarnate thunderbolt. In the afternoon he sent over a bottle of his best Madeira as a peace-offering. Mrs. Webb acknowledged the Madeira, not the truce. The following day General Battle called upon the judge and requested in half-hearted tones the withdrawal of Amos Burr's son. He looked excited and somewhat alarmed, and the judge recognised the hand of the player.
"My dear Tom Battle," he said soothingly, "you do not wish the poor child any harm."
"'Fore God, I don't, George," stammered the general.
"He's a quiet, unoffending lad."